


"You know you can call me David"

by OlaftheSnowman



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:41:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1698623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OlaftheSnowman/pseuds/OlaftheSnowman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard Duncan is a rich Lord who owns a large estate and is looking to expand it, when David Macbeth helps him do that, old feelings between the two young men begin to resurface. Light angst. ONESHOT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"You know you can call me David"

**Author's Note:**

> This is complete nonsense, done on a dare from classmates when we were studying Macbeth and we spotted innuendoes EVERYWHERE. Might make more chapters in the future if I feel like it. I OWN NOTHING.

Sitting behind his large wooden desk, Duncan was busily at work when Malcolm burst through the doors to his study.

“My Lord!” he cried.

Duncan slowly raised his eyes to Malcolm. The poor man seemed to be a mixture of stress, tiredness and elation, thought Duncan. When nothing was said for a while, Malcolm continued “We have acquired the Macdonwald estate.”

Now that was good news. For months, Duncan's father had been trying to attain that small money pot- taking out his anger and exasperation at failure on Duncan himself. Since those incidents Duncan had appealed to everyone and anyone he could think of to get the Duncan family that property.

“How?” he gasped with excitement. There was nothing that could have improved his mood more than hearing this news. All of his nightmares would end.

Malcolm took a step forward, obviously comforted by the interest in him, and said “Macbeth, Sir.”

_Macbeth?_

No, that wasn't possible. Not Macbeth who had only been asked yesterday to help out? Surely not.

He knew Macbeth was good, but not that good.

“How?” he asked again.

“He strode in with all the confidence of the world,” started Malcolm, visibly awed, “and then presented them with a very simple situation. 'Sign the contract or face the consequences.'”

Duncan rose to his feet. “But they would never have signed! We've been trying the same thing for half a year!”

Nodding in agreement, Malcolm said “Yes. And of course they didn't sign. So Macbeth faced them with the consequences.”

“What happened?” he asked, striding around the desk, planting himself in front of the tired man. His face was alight with wonder at the story, but Duncan doubted it could even be compared to his own. Despite his best efforts to conceal his thoughts, he feared they showed plainly in his expression.

“Brave Macbeth, cheating all the odds, took on each and everyone of Macdonwald's men by himself. One of the larger men attempted to catch him off-guard with a blade and yet somehow-” Malcolm broke off and Dunacn feared he had guessed what he was thinking. He almost sighed with relief when Malcolm simply shook his head and continued, “That blade soon smoked with blood, driven by the power of gods, and with the fire of a thousand suns.”

“Was he hurt?” The question slipped out and Duncan wanted to slam his head into the desk for his own stupidity. Luckily, Malcolm misunderstood the question.

“Macdonwald?” he asked. “Yes, a little. Once his men were slaughtered he simply froze behind his desk. Macbeth walked up to him and told him to sign. He refused at first, although his voice was a little weaker than it had been initially.”

“And?” Duncan pressed, not bothering to conceal his eagerness now.

“He drove his knife through Macdonwald's hand and told him again to sign over the property. When he protested that Macbeth had pinned his hand to the desk, Macbeth said to him 'You have another one'.”

Duncan was momentarily lost to his own mind, thinking of the man who had saved him from his father's wrath, the man who had done his family a great favour, who had shown great bravery risking his life for Duncan.

He could imagine the way Macbeth's lean muscles would have rolled over his arms as he lifted them up, ready to strike his next attacker. He could visualise how he would have coiled himself like an animal before pouncing at Macdonwald's men as soon as their concentration was gone. Duncan could practically feel Macbeth's hot breath on his face as he whispered to his enemy, how his eyes would have been filled with the euphoria of success and the passion of the battle. If only-

Duncan realised where his thoughts were leading him and cut them off before it was too late to hide them. He barked at Malcolm, “Fetch me Macbeth!”

“Sir?” he seemed taken aback by Duncan's sudden sharpness, probably believing it was directed at Macbeth rather than Duncan himself.

Trying to calm his voice, he replied “Macbeth has done me a great service. He deserves a reward, doesn't he?”

_Just leave, you stupid man. Leave me to be alone with my thoughts._

“He is already outside, Lord Duncan.” said Malcolm, his voice slightly unsure. “I brought him with me when I left Macdonwald's estate.”

Duncan froze. He tried to convince himself that it would be fine to see Macbeth now. Although, he had been counting on using the time it would take for Macbeth to arrive to configure himself. Not much he could do about it now.

He turned away from Malcolm and croaked “Bring him in.”

_Breathe. Just breathe. Everything will be fine._

Duncan was managing just fine with that plan until he heard multiple pairs of footsteps drawing closer to the room. Composing himself once more, he turned to face the door, leaning unnoticeably on the desk behind him for support.

Malcolm re-entered the room with two more men. One was tall and undeniable handsome. A flowing mane of dark hair scraped his shoulders and brushed the left side of his face where a faint scar ran the length of his cheek. His strong build was evident even under the long leather jacket he wore. Duncan fought to suppress his smile as he recognised the man. Macbeth.

Next to him stood another well-built man, almost as tall as Macbeth himself. His hair was a great deal lighter than his companion's, although just as untamed. His name was Banquo and he held himself next to Macbeth like the best friend he was, never having to worry about proximity or what to say or what to think. Duncan hated him for it.

Clearing his throat, Duncan spoke, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Thank you for coming gentlemen. May I speak with Macbeth alone, please?”

After confirming with Macbeth that he would be alright by himself, Banquo left. Malcolm joined him shortly after a pointed glance from Duncan.

Once the room was empty, he walked over to Macbeth and shook his hand. It only lasted a moment, but Duncan's pulse sped up at the feel Macbeth's calloused skin against his own. His hands were strong yet Duncan knew that they could be as gentle as they were deadly.

In need of a distraction, Duncan busied himself with closing the door and walking back to his desk. Distance. That's what was needed. Being close to each other would only bring back memories of warmth, and happiness and-

_That_ was not going to help anything. Duncan mentally scolded himself and returned to the matter at hand. “Thank you, Macbeth.” he said.

“It's no problem Lord Duncan, you know I'd help you after all you've done for my family.”

Duncan couldn't help but notice that Macbeth also seemed to be deliberately avoiding eye contact.

_Probably can't stand to be around you._

He couldn't push the thought away before it planted itself in his mind. Tears welled up, but he hastily hid them. Concentrating on his feet he murmured “You know you can call me Richard.”

Macbeth said nothing for a few moments and Duncan worried that he had crossed a line. But then Macbeth spoke just as quietly as Duncan had. “And you know you can call me David.”

Duncan snapped his head up and met Macbeth's steady gaze. The two of them held it there in silence until Macbeth looked away and nervously scratched his neck.

“Um... So. You wanted to see me?”

Duncan turned away again, clearing thoughts of soft skin and strong hands out of his mind. “Yes. I wanted to thank you properly- with more than just words.” he clarified.

He didn't turn back to Macbeth but he imagined that his eyebrow would have been arched, making his scar stretch like a delicate carving across his face. Duncan knew he would be wondering what he meant. And then possibly thinking of ways to politely decline. Before Macbeth could have enough time to formulate a decent plan, Duncan had pulled a document from the top of a pile and scribbled his signature on the bottom of it.

“Here.” he said, spinning back around the face the scarred man, holding out the paper.

Macbeth's eyes flicked to the document. “What is that?” his voice was low, full of wariness and apprehension. Duncan didn't blame him for his suspicion, Macbeth had always had simple needs. The things Duncan had offered him in the past had held no appeal for him. But this time was different.

Straightening up, Duncan held his chin high. He was desperately trying not to convey any emotion, and emit the power his father was insistent he learn to carry. “It is a document declaring that should anything happen to me, you get everything I own.”

Macbeth was shaking his head before Duncan was even halfway through. “Richard, I can't accept that.”

It was Duncan's turn to shake his head, “Nonsense. I have to give it to somebody anyway. And I have no children- God, I'm only twenty-four. Why not give it to my oldest friend?” To keep himself from stammering over the last part, Duncan turned his stare to his shoes again. He purposely left out how Macbeth was no longer close friends with him. How it probably pained Macbeth to be in the same room as Duncan after all they'd been through and after all they'd agreed to forget. 

Macbeth didn't reply for a long time, and Duncan feared what would come next. A rejection, perhaps. Another one. He couldn't face that again.

But when Duncan looked up, he found that Macbeth had silently moved closer to him. Close enough to touch even.

“Why not keep it until you have a child?” Macbeth murmured, his warm breath tickling Duncan's face. Duncan averted his eyes from the dark pools before him and barely moving his lips, whispered “I can't have a child with a woman when I'm in love with someone else.”

He instantly swallowed, hoping fiercely that he could claw the confession back into his throat. Macbeth didn't react to the message in the words as Duncan knew he wouldn't. Instead he said quietly, “When you meet a woman as lovely as my Rose, you'll understand.”

“Your girlfriend is a psycho.” Again, it slipped from Duncan's mouth before he could do anything to stop it. However, Macbeth didn't react angrily. He'd probably been expecting a similar reaction. “I love her.” he said.

“But you didn't love me.” Duncan didn't even regret it this time. He liked the flash of hurt that went through Macbeth's eyes. It showed that he still cared in some dark part of his soul. “You know why I left.” he replied.

Examining the other side of the room, Duncan muttered “I know why you  _said_ you left.”

Suddenly, his rough hands were gently gripping Duncan's face, forcing their eyes to meet. “You think I didn't love you?” he growled softly. “You think I didn't wish their was a way we could be happy?”

Duncan's hands were trembling around the document clutched in his palm. His brain was whirring frantically searching for something to say. All he could come up with was “I would have given it all up-” Duncan was cut off by the press of Macbeth's lips upon his own.

The rough hands moved down from his face to where Duncan's back rested against the desk. They pulled him closer to Macbeth, not meeting any resistance.

The kiss deepened and the smallest of moans escaped Duncan's throat. He could feel the hard lines of Macbeth's body beneath the leather, every muscle strong and tensed. The hand clutching the paper wrapped its way around the back of Macbeth's body while the other traced the line of the scar from his cheekbone to his chin.

Encouraged by his response, Macbeth's hands slipped under Duncan's shirt to press against the cool skin on his back. He shivered involuntarily, a tingle of pleasure coursing through him. While his hand slipped under the collar of Macbeth's shirt, Duncan gently grazed his teeth on his bottom lip.

Macbeth gasped softly, before abruptly breaking away.

His expression showed a mixture of shock, weariness, and surprise at what he'd done. Whether it was about breaking away or making a move to break away from in the first place, Duncan didn't know. He hoped it was the former.

He was wrong.

“We shouldn't have done that.” stated Macbeth, still eyeing Duncan cautiously as though he expected his friend to jump him at any minute. Duncan felt his face fall. Blatantly going where he knew he shouldn't he said “But you liked it.”

Macbeth was once again avoiding eye-contact, and when he didn't respond Duncan continued, carefully minding how he phrased his next sentence. “And after all, isn't that what matters most? Happiness. Most people throw their lives away searching for it. Yet we've stumbled across it.” Aware that he could be making a huge mistake, he stepped forward, putting himself incredibly close to Macbeth once again. “You said you loved me.” he whispered, tilting his head so their eyes met. “That's all I care about. We could be together and nobody would ever have to know. Just leave Rose.”

Duncan knew he had gone too far when Macbeth reeled back and snarled harshly “I'm not leaving Rose.”

“Why not? It's clear you still feel something for me.” he protested. Although he knew he must have appeared pathetic, body drooping and eyes begging, Duncan kept all those thoughts in the back of his mind and ploughed forward. Wanting nothing more than to finally put an end to all his pain and longing, he pleaded his case. “We have known each other for how long? Years! How can some stupid little fling with that woman-”

“We're getting married.” interrupted Macbeth.

For a few moments Duncan simply blinked. He focused on how loud their discussion had suddenly become without either of them seemingly aware of it. The only evidence was the slight ringing in his ears.

Then Macbeth's words set in.

“Excuse me?” Duncan's question was barely a whisper. He tried to keep his voice calm but he was pretty certain that Macbeth could hear the angry tremor beneath it.

Turning his back to Duncan and fixing his attention on the door, Macbeth replied equally as calm “She's not just a fling. She's my fiancée.”

Duncan was glad that Macbeth's back was turned so that he wouldn't see the flaming red heat that burned his cheeks. He swallowed. “Oh.”

“You should come.” suggested Macbeth without any real amount of conviction.

“Perhaps I should.” said Duncan, deadpan. The scarred man lifted his chin up, ignoring the unspoken argument between them. Tension surrounded the two men, enveloping them in an inescapable awkwardness.

Duncan wanted to kick himself. Or curl up and weep. How could he have been so stupid? So naïve? Of course Macbeth didn't want anything to do with him. He would have been ashamed to be seen with him. He guessed that Macbeth was thinking along the same lines during the prolonged silence. Surely he'd be telling himself how stupid it had been to entertain Duncan's desires for a moment. Perhaps he had been wishing that it would put an end to it all rather than inspiring hope in the fool.

After what seemed like far too long but also far too short a time, Macbeth cleared his throat and marched back to Duncan. He held out a hand to him. Duncan placed the paper still clutched in his fingers in Macbeth's palm and realised too late that the other man had been expecting a handshake. Macbeth's gaze cut to the document and glared at it with contempt.

“Thank you Lord Duncan.” he growled before striding out of the room, shutting the door gently behind him.

With the click of the door closing, all of Duncan's energy left him. He collapsed onto the desk and let his head fall into his hands.

 


End file.
